‘Like you.’ Jonathon moved a hand between her legs, mirroring her actions. He cupped her at her core, his hand moving against her mons. Jonathon braced himself on his arms and looked down at her. ‘You are my coffee-haired witch, my cognac-eyed Delilah.’
‘Coffee? Cognac? You make me sound like a drink.’ She laughed up at him.
‘I’d like to drink you, perhaps I shall.’ Wickedness glinted in the blue depths of his eyes. Jonathon grinned and slid down her body, leaving kisses at her breasts, at her navel, at the dark juncture between her thighs, each kiss serving to ratchet up the intensity of his touch. Only then, with her body primed for pleasure and his breath warm against the dampness of her curls did she understand what he meant to do. Her legs tightened about him out of reflex. Surely he couldn’t mean to do that?
‘Easy, Claire, you will like it. I will make it good for you,’ he coaxed. ‘Open for me. It’s all right.’ He held her thighs apart, his grip steadying her. She relaxed beneath his touch, her muscles easing. At the first pass of his tongue, her mind eased as well. This was indeed a most delightfully wicked pleasure. His tongue found her nub and licked, sucked, licked again while she arched beneath him, finding the rhythm of her own pleasure in answer to him.
She heard him give a sharp moan, an indication that this intimacy pleased him to give it as much as it pleased her to receive it. Together, they drove one another to recklessness. She bucked, her moans an aphrodisiac nonpareil as she began to crest against him, reaching out for the pleasure, the fulfilment, and he gave it to her, his own breathing coming in rasps now.
She gasped incoherently and Jonathon levered himself over her. His words came in a broken torrent. He was close to losing himself as well. ‘I promised I could wait for you to recover. I promised myself I’d be gentle.’
‘Then don’t. Don’t wait. Don’t be gentle.’ Her legs were wide and ready for him, her body racked with pleasure. ‘Bury yourself in me, Jonathon.’
He pulled her arms high above her head, holding them in his grip, her breasts pushed hard into him as her body arched in affirmation. He’d driven them both wild, made both of them reckless with wanting. Jonathon lowered himself into the cradle of her legs, his body positioning itself, fitting itself to her with an ease that spoke of homecoming. They were primed for one another, wet and slick with their intimacy. He slid into her, the tightness of her channel stretching around him, surrounding him. She gave a sharp gasp, a reminder that while her body was running hot with desire, it was still her first time and he was a full-sheathed male inside an untried passage.
Jonathon stilled, the muscles of his arms taut with the effort, the discipline of his will overcoming their rampant need. She arched against him, in signal to continue, and he began to move, slowly at first—the tantalising glide inward, then the teasing slide outward, their hips meeting and breaking and meeting again like waves along the shore, gently, and then with the ferocity of the pounding surf. She writhed against him, madness driving them to the edge of pleasure and then over it with a final spilling thrust. For the first time, they’d found that pleasure together.
He sank against her, exhausted, his heart pounding, the sweat of sex on him, that elusive scent of salt and musk. He found the strength to roll to his side, and pulled her to him, her head resting on his good shoulder. Had she ever been so entirely undone? Nothing could have prepared her for this feeling of bonelessness.
‘Claire, are you all right?’ he asked softly, ‘Lie still and I’ll get you a cloth.’ He began to push up from the bed, but she placed a hand on his chest in gentle restraint.
‘No, it will keep. I don’t want to give you up just yet. Lie here with me.’ She walked her fingers in an idle path across his chest. ‘Is it always like that? Like I think I will die from it and yet I can’t stop myself from embracing it?’
‘Running towards disaster?’ Jonathon chuckled. ‘That’s not very flattering.’ Then he sobered, his hand closing over hers where it lay on his chest. ‘It’s not a disaster at any rate. The French have a word for it, le petit mort. The little death.’
‘Ah, something in French you know that I don’t.’ She sighed and settled into quiet contemplation as she gathered her thoughts, now that passion was receding and other issues were starting to encroach. ‘Jonathon, I know what I am doing in Dover,’ she began tentatively, fearing the answer. ‘I came to tell you I love you...that pushing you away was a mistake. But what I don’t know is what are you doing in Dover?’
Chapter Twenty
Jonathon shifted, uncomfortable with the question. What would she think? Would she think he was crazy or that it was a foolish hope?
‘What?’ She raised herself up on one arm, cajoling him with a sleepy smile. ‘You can climb into my bedroom and wring my secrets out of me, but I can’t do the same for you?’ She was teasing him, but in the dim light of the room, he could see the uneasiness in her eyes. Her question had inadvertently become a test of trust.
‘Jonathon?’ Her body tensed when he hesitated, the light in her eyes diminished. ‘I see.’ She had come to him, declared herself to him and trusted him to protect her. Now, it was his turn to reciprocate. This had become a defining moment for them. She had made the leap of faith. She was waiting for him to follow.
Jonathon swallowed. ‘You will think I am crazy.’ He couldn’t bear it if that were true. He understood why his parents had stopped looking, stopped hoping. He didn’t speak about it in society in general because they didn’t care. He’d grown tired of the patronising pity in people’s eyes whenever he brought Thomas up.
‘What could be crazier than allowing you to believe I had a suitor? Your secret can hardly be more embarrassing than mine.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Try me, Jonathon.’
‘It’s my brother, Thomas. There’s been word that he might be found. There’s an informant who is coming to meet me, who says he has information.’ He could hear the hope in his voice as he said the words out loud.
He watched her brow knit, watched her expression change into contemplation. ‘Your brother? Isn’t he dead?’
‘Maybe. His body was never found.’
‘Has he been found, then?’ she asked gently. He could see her doing the maths in her head, her mind debating the doubt and probability of such a thing. Seven years was a long time. Any moment she’d ask the question: If he was alive, why hadn’t he returned home by now under his own power? It was what everyone asked.
She settled back down, resting her head against his shoulder. ‘It seems you have quite the tale to tell, Jonathon. Perhaps you should get started. We only have all night.’ Just like that, an enormous weight, one he hadn’t fully realised he was carrying, was lifted from him.
It felt good to talk, or maybe it was that it felt good to talk to her. There in the dark, with her body against his, he told her about Thomas, how his brother had ridden off with the dispatch in his place, how his brother had not made the meeting place, how he had wandered the battlefield and roads looking for Thomas until he’d been shot down, unable to search any further. ‘The trouble is, I don’t know if I want to find him. In some ways, I think I am afraid to find him, afraid to know what happened to him.’
Those last words were out before he could take them back. He’d not meant to say that much. He’d never spoken those words out loud, not to anyone, not even Owen. He needed to find Thomas, alive or dead, to assuage his own guilt at having left his brother behind. But want? No, he didn’t want to find Thomas. Didn’t want to learn why Thomas chose not to come home. There was more guilt down that road of not wanting. It was a dark question he did not examine often. He waited for Claire’s response, waited for her condemnation. What kind of person didn’t want to find his brother alive? But what he got in return was a single word, a single question.
‘Why?’ she whispered, her hand covering his, her eyes soft. There was no judgement in her g
aze, only concern for him. It unlocked the dam that had held back his thoughts for so many years. Words flooded from his mouth.
‘Because war changes a person. If he’s been found, why hasn’t he come home sooner? Did he choose not to? Or has he lost his memory? Maybe he’s not Thomas any more.’ Memories defined who a person was, gave them a history. If they were gone, Thomas would have built new ones without him. ‘Who am I to disrupt whatever new life he’s found?’ That would compound selfishness with the guilt he already knew. Dragging Thomas home was for him, for his parents. It had occurred to him that Thomas might not thank him for it.
‘I think you put too many horses before the cart, Jonathon.’ Claire smiled gently. ‘Go and see what this man knows and then decide what you should do. Your heart will know what is right.’
Jonathon shook his head. Her faith in him overwhelmed him. ‘How do you know that when I don’t?’
He felt her laughter warm against his chest. ‘Do you remember that summer at the Worths when the four of us wanted to go fishing with you and Preston?’ Her eyes sparkled with little amber lights. ‘Preston was adamant we not go. But you simply went into the shed and pulled out four more rods and handed them to us. You spent the day helping us bait our hooks and reeling in a few fish. You even showed us how to gut them.’ She wrinkled up her nose.
He did remember that day. He’d never dreamed four girls could keep him that busy. ‘By the end of the day, none of us wanted to fish again. But we discovered that by ourselves. You knew fishing wasn’t for us, but you also knew we’d never accept being told. You never had to worry about us going fishing with you and Preston again. You invested one day and won a lifelong reprieve. Preston, on the other hand, was willing to beg for one day. We would have just kept nagging him every time the two of you went out.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘That’s how I know. You’ve always known the right thing to do and the right way to do it, even if your brain doesn’t recognise it. Call it instinct.’
He was certain now. Claire was too good for him, a man who’d left his brother behind. She saw the real good, not the manufactured social good based on what he looked like and how he acted. ‘You humble me, Claire.’ She enlightened him, too. Being with her gave him a glimpse of what marriage ought to be, could be; this being able to see into another’s soul and understanding them for who they were. Claire proved it was possible marriage could be something more than two people forming an alliance to exchange goods and services. It would bring him a different kind of peace than the one he sought in Vienna, a more valuable, personal peace. Would she come to hate him for it? To claim her and all she offered meant to put her in the eye of scandal. But surely she’d understood that when she’d come to Dover. Surely, this consummation that had taken place tonight was a prelude to other consummations to come. Tonight was just the beginning.
‘I’m glad you came,’ he whispered into her hair. The words were inadequate. He was glad she had come, that she was with him in this next step in his search for Thomas, glad that he was no longer alone.
Claire kissed the flat rise of his nipple, nipping it with her teeth. Where the hell had she learned such a thing? She slanted him a decadent gaze, her eyes a dark shade of melted chocolate, hot and rich, and he knew. She’d learned it from him. His body tightened with anticipation as her kisses trailed down his torso. What else had she learned from him? What else would she dare?
‘What are you doing, Claire?’
She gave his cock a considering look before she slid down his body. ‘I wonder, does my mouth work for you, too?’
He felt himself grow hard as if he hadn’t spent the last hour slaking his needs. ‘It works,’ he growled, but his reluctance was only feigned.
Her hand slipped beneath his phallus and cupped his ball sac. ‘And this?’ Her eyes glittered as she gave the tender bag a squeeze, watching him the whole while.
‘Yes, that works, too. Why don’t you see for yourself?’
She licked her lips, pulling her hair to one side in a move worthy of any Venetian courtesan. ‘Oh, I mean to.’ She put her mouth to his tip and he shuddered, letting the delicious pleasure ripple through his body. He intended to fully enjoy this, and he did, until he couldn’t, until it ran it away with him, and he was a bucking, thrashing mess begging her to bring him off. He cried out at the end, a wordless yelp.
‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ she whispered, crawling up his body and taking her place against his shoulder.
‘Conquered me, have you?’ Jonathon chuckled. ‘Well, perhaps you have.’ He was beyond exhausted now, beyond replete.
‘Not conquered. Crossed.’ She drew an idle design on his chest. ‘You, Jonathon, are my Rubicon.’
‘And you are mine,’ he murmured, feeling sleep come to claim him. There would be no going back. Tonight changed everything. What came next wouldn’t be easy but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
* * *
‘Come with me.’ His words were soft in the darkness as he shook her awake. Claire burrowed under the cocoon of blankets in sleepy resistance.
‘Where?’ The night which had seemed so luxuriously long was fleeing by the moment, pushed away by the encroaching cold light of dawn. If she opened her eyes, she could see it through the crack in the curtains. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear it in the faint cries of the milkmaids in the streets. She didn’t want to do either. She wanted to hold on to the night, hold on to him and the idea that last night changed everything, made everything possible when in reality it changed nothing. She would remember that once she woke up.
‘To meet the informant. He’s downstairs.’ His fingers plucked at the blankets, urging her out of bed, urging haste.
Her sleepy brain was starting to wake up and register certain facts. Jonathon was already dressed. He’d already been downstairs. He had come back for her, waited, even though she could see tension in the tightness of his mouth, of his smile as he mustered the patience for her to dress. This was important to him and, because he’d asked her to share in it, it was important to her as well. Today, he was relying on her strength. She offered him a confident smile as she stepped from behind the dressing screen and took his hand. ‘Whatever happens downstairs, we’ll see it through together.’
The private parlour was set up for breakfast with a platter of eggs and sausages and basket of rolls along with a pot of coffee. Delicious though it smelled, Claire doubted anyone would be eating. Jonathon went through the motions of filling a plate he wouldn’t likely touch. ‘Best not to let the man think we’re nervous.’ He nodded towards the platters, indicating she should make a plate, too.
‘I don’t know why I’m anxious. We’ve had our hopes up before. This isn’t the first claim.’ Jonathon buttered his toast and she recognised his need to talk, his need to keep busy.
She brought her plate to the table and sat. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, the first time was four months after Waterloo. We received a ransom note. I was too weak to travel to France and check the validity of the claim. Owen Danvers checked for us and it turned out to be a fraud. The second time, however—’ He broke off, his eyes moving over her shoulder to a point by the door. He rose hastily, brushing the toast crumbs from his hands. ‘He’s here, Claire.’
The man in question was wiry in build, with dark hair and strong Gallic features in his sallow face. ‘Je regrette, monsieur,’ he began in heavy French, clasping Jonathon’s hand as he explained how the tide had not allowed the ship to dock, how they’d had to be rowed in from quite a distance. ‘I would have been here before dawn, otherwise.’
The man had no English. Claire glanced at Jonathon. His features were tight with concentration as he made his response.
‘Il n’y a rien.’ He gestured to a chair at the table, continuing in French. ‘Please, come and sit. Eat. There are fresh rolls. You must be tired.’ The man shuffled forward, eyes d
arting towards her. He was as suspicious, perhaps as anxious, as Jonathon was.
‘This is my wife, Claire.’ Jonathon hadn’t even hesitated over the declaration. Claire felt herself flush. The man seemed to relax. Perhaps it was a good sign that he, too, was nervous.
The man sat and buttered a roll. ‘I have travelled a long way,’ he began, his dark eyes narrow and assessing as they watched Jonathon.
Jonathon nodded, his own features hard. ‘Owen Danvers tells me you have news that is worth the journey.’ This was the diplomat, the negotiator coming out—the man who could create polite, veiled messages. Even more impressive was watching him do it in French. This was one more side of Jonathon she’d yet to see in action.
Jonathon reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a money clip. He slid the money on to the table between them, an indication of what the journey was worth. A reminder, too, that the man was being paid well. No favours were being done here, this was business.
The man eyed the money clip. ‘Danvers promised me more than that.’
‘He did,’ Jonathon agreed easily. ‘There will be more when we hear what you have to say. Neither Danvers nor I am paying for lies.’ Claire’s gaze slid between the two men.
The man held up his hands in assent. ‘I deal only in truths. I will tell you what I know,’ he said in affronted French, accompanied by a sneer at the insult. ‘There was a wounded man who was taken in and nursed at one of the farms on the Lys River. He was there for some time, I’m told—’
‘Attendez!’ Jonathon interrupted, the sharpness of his tone taking Claire by surprise. ‘You were told? Your information is not first-hand?’
‘Non, monsieur. I am the messenger only.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
The man’s gaze held Jonathon’s. ‘Because I have this, monsieur.’ He took a small object from his coat pocket and pushed it across the table. Claire strained to see the item.
Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss (Wallflowers to Wives) Page 19